


False Start

by adjectivebear (HealerAriel)



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: F/M, Hurt/Comfort, fluffy fluff, unadulterated fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-07
Updated: 2015-10-07
Packaged: 2018-04-25 05:49:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,295
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4949014
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HealerAriel/pseuds/adjectivebear
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Imogen and Cullen's first night together doesn't go quite as planned.</p>
            </blockquote>





	False Start

Cullen paused in his ascent to Imogen's quarters, steadying himself against the wall as the world spun beneath his feet. He pressed his forehead to the cold stones, taking what small comfort they could offer from the throbbing pain within his skull, and swallowed hard against the nausea roiling in his stomach. He'd felt so _well_ all week; it was the entire reason they'd planned this for tonight. He hadn't even entertained the possibility that he might wake this morning feeling worse than he had all month.

Maker, she was going to be so disappointed.

Once he'd regained his balance, he trudged up the last stretch of stairs into her room, doing his best to exude more confidence than he felt as he stepped onto the landing. All told, it was going rather well until the sudden transition from cold stairwell to warm bedroom made his head reel. He staggered.

“Cullen!” Imogen cried, catching him in her arms a split second before he toppled down the stairs.

“I'm fine,” he said sheepishly, not quite able to meet her concerned green eyes.

“No, you are bloody well  _not_ ,” she said, ushering him well away from the stairs. “You're ill.”

“I've been far worse.”

She sighed, dropping her voice into the softer register she used when she knew his head hurt. “When were you planning on telling me?”

He scratched the back of his neck.

“You  _weren't_ planning on telling me. You were just going to... what, suffer through it? Put on a brave face and hope I didn't catch on?”

“We can still—I mean, it won't be  _perfect_ , but I'm sure I can—”

“Cullen Rutherford, you are having a hot bath and going directly to bed, and I don't want to hear another word about it,” Imogen said firmly, relieving him of his mantle and beginning to work on the fastenings of his armor, grousing quietly about his stubbornness.

Cullen cast his gaze around the room, noting, with no small amount of guilt, that Imogen had outdone herself. The mantlepiece and bedside tables were festooned with flickering candles, the bed scattered with what appeared to be rose petals. She, herself, was no exception, an absolute vision in a sheer, floor-length peignoir of the palest seafoam green, her dark red hair flowing loosely about her freckled shoulders, and he felt all the more wretched for his body's utter lack of response to the sight.

“Stop that,” she commanded, setting his armor on the floor—softly, taking care not to make the slightest sound—before starting on the rest of his clothes.

“What?”

“You're making that 'Oh, I'm such a burden' face of yours. Stop it.”

Cullen sighed and allowed her to lift his shirt over his head, in no state to make even the slightest protest in the name of modesty. “This wasn't quite how I'd pictured you seeing me naked for the first time,” he said as she discarded his belt and began unlacing his trousers.

Imogen chuckled. “Don't worry, I promise I'll act surprised next time.”

She tugged his trousers and smalls down in one go, and he felt himself flush, painfully aware of his flaccidity. “It's, ah—it's not always... That is to say, it's far more impressive when it's, er...”

She gave him a droll look. “Cullen. I have a library full of books and three married sisters. I  _am_ aware of how they work.” She rose to her feet and took his hand. “Come on, into the bath with you.”

She led him to the large clawfoot tub by the hearth. She tapped a rune affixed to the side of the tub that made the water begin to steam—Dagna's handiwork, no doubt—and helped him to step in.

He sank down into the tub, letting out a grateful sigh as the hot water began to wick away the bone-deep ache in his muscles. Imogen settled herself on a footstool behind him, carding her fingers gently through his hair.

Her soothing touches gradually deepened into a massage, and he moaned, letting his head fall back into her hands.

She laughed. “Good?”

“Mmmm,” he sighed, closing his eyes as her strong, clever fingers worked at his scalp.

It was not until her ministrations had dulled his headache considerably that he noticed the bath smelled softly of lavender and roses, and he felt a fresh stab of guilt at the realization that she'd likely meant for them to share it. He cleared his throat.

“That's a lovely nightgown, by the way.”

“What, _this_ old thing? I found it at quite a naughty little shop in Val Royeaux.”

“I'm sorry that it's been wasted.”

“Don't be ridiculous,” Imogen chided gently. “It'll be just as pretty tomorrow.” She paused her massaging to drop a kiss to the top of his head. “How's the headache coming along?”

Cullen moved his head this way and that, testing. The pain, to his surprise, had diminished into a mere annoyance. “Much better, actually. Thank you.”

“Thank Bull, he's the one who suggested it. Something to do with pressure points.”

Cullen frowned. “Why would the Iron Bull know about such things?”

Imogen laughed. “Think hard about whether you _actually_ want to know the answer to that question.”

He did not.

Imogen kissed his head again, her hands drifting down to knead his shoulders. “Have you eaten recently?”

Cullen's stomach growled loudly at the mention of food. “I, er, had a lot to do today,” he said lamely. He had also doubted his ability to keep anything down, but she didn't need to know that.

“ _Damn_ it, Cullen.” 

“I have an army to supervise.”

“And at _least_ half a dozen people under your command who would be more than capable of assuming some of the responsibility you foolishly insist on taking on yourself,” she said. “I won't have the Inquisition falling apart because my general can't be arsed to mind his health.”

“But—”

“No 'buts,'” she said sternly. “From here on out, you are to delegate at least thirty percent of your workload. Fifty when you're not feeling well. That _is_ an order, Commander.”

Cullen sighed, but felt a smile tugging at his lips. “Yes, Inquisitor.”

Imogen gave his shoulders a squeeze. “Come on. We don't want you getting overheated. _And_ you need some supper.”

Cullen obediently took her hands and let her help him out of the tub. She grabbed a towel and began drying him off. His heart did a funny little flip. “You don't have to do all of this for me.”

Imogen laughed as she knelt to dry his legs. “It's adorable that you think I'm doing any of this because I feel like I have to.” She kissed his hip, then pushed herself back up to her feet. She studied his face, bringing her fingers up to brush his cheek. “You look tired.”

“I'm fi—”

She narrowed her eyes.

Cullen coughed awkwardly. “Yes. I am, a bit.”

“Poor thing,” Imogen said, cupping his face in her hands with a tenderness that nearly brought tears to his eyes. “I'd still like you to eat something. Shall I wake you when it arrives? Then you can go straight back to sleep after?”

“You _are_ in command,” he reminded her.

Imogen rolled her eyes. She led him to the bed and, with much fussing about whether he was warm enough or needed more or fewer pillows, tucked him into it. Cullen could already feel sleep starting to overcome his exhausted body as she smoothed his curls back. “Get some rest,” she said softly.

“I'm sorry about tonight,” he murmured sleepily.

“There will be others,” she said, and Cullen was vaguely aware of the soft press of her lips against his forehead as he drifted off into a deep sleep.

 


End file.
